


Risk & Reward

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternative Universe - FBI, Bickering, M/M, Snark, Sparring, Trainee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: Peter’s never been a fatherly type, but he’s close to putting his hands on his hips and wagging his finger at the boy. And that’s what Stilinski is: a boy. An immature, inexperienced child. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you at the drop to be killed by your own stupidity.”***Peter and his trainee get locked in an FBI safe house after a mission gone wrong.





	Risk & Reward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HDHale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day!!! This is for HDHale, who requested FBI mentor/student snark and bonding and sexual tension. I hope this satisfies the craving!

Peter follows his trainee through the motel room door and slams it behind them. He can’t yell—shouldn’t, anyway—but the words are bursting out of him. He barely manages to temper his voice so they’re not overheard by any possible neighbors.

“Do you have no understanding of subtlety?” he snaps. Peter’s never been a fatherly type, but he’s close to putting his hands on his hips and wagging his finger at the boy. And that’s what Stilinski is: a boy. An immature, inexperienced child. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you at the drop to be killed by your own stupidity.”

“Hey!” Stilinski objects loudly. Everything he does is loud.

“Before you climb up on your high horse and try to explain how reasonable your actions were, let me remind you that we’re now being hunted, and we had to hand over surveillance to another team, and _we cannot leave this room_. If you had just _listened_ to me instead of running off half-cocked, we’d have an arrest by now. But no, instead we’re at this fucking no-tell-motel and I can’t fucking escape you.”

The vehemence drains out of Peter then, though the anger still simmers in his blood. This kid ruined months of careful, quiet work because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. Peter turns away from him with a sigh and paces in the narrow aisle between a bed and the heavily-curtained window. He can feel Stilinski simmering over on the other side of the tiny room, fidgeting in front of the bathroom door. It’s really the only other place where there’s room to stand.

“How long do we have to stay here?” Stilinski asks, his voice tense and low.

“Until ASAC McCall deems it safe for us to show our faces again,” Peter snaps. “Who the hell knows.” He sighs again and turns away, pretends he can see out the window just so he doesn’t have to avoid Stilinski’s gaze. “I’m never taking on a trainee again, I swear to God,” he mutters.

The bathroom door slams, presumably with Stilinski on the other side of it. Peter hears the shower turn on a moment later, and then a frustrated shout and a few loud thumps. Peter feels like slamming his fist into the wall too, but he’s more mature than that. He can restrain himself.

***

Four days and several boxes of delivery Chinese food later, Peter is inches away from punching his trainee in the face instead of punching the nearest wall. Stilinski punches his pillow sometimes to relieve his frustration, but Peter won’t let his own show. He refuses to let Stilinski see how crazy this enforced closeness is making him.

But it’s making him pretty damn crazy.

Stilinski chews with his mouth open, talks with his mouth full, never shuts up in general, and snores. The snoring isn’t terrible, actually, it’s really just heavy breathing with his mouth open, but it’s still annoying. He never fucking closes his mouth.

They’re watching TV over dinner—pizza this time—and Stilinski is maintaining a steady commentary that sounds like he memorized the IMDB Trivia page. Peter wants to throw the empty pizza box at his head.

He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing.

***

After another two days and a hushed plea to McCall to express his boredom and frustration, they receive a special delivery of three boxes of files and paperwork. Stilinski groans when the agent drops it off.

“We’re locked in here indefinitely and you expect me to spend my time doing paperwork?”

“Yes,” Peter snaps. They already had their laptops, thankfully, but Peter can feel the level of stir-crazy rising steadily, and he hopes some routine case file review will occupy both of their minds and maybe even give Stilinski something to focus on _silently_.

The agent holds out the delivery paper for Peter’s signature and rolls his eyes at Stilinski’s continued huffing and puffing.

“Wanna trade places?” Peter murmurs.

“Not on your life. Good luck, sir,” the man replies.

As soon as the door closes, Stilinski says, “I’m not writing reports.”

“You’re not on fucking vacation,” Peter grinds out. “You’ll do what I fucking tell you, and I’m telling you to write your damn reports.”

“These aren’t even my cases.”

“No, they’re mine. So you’d best get started familiarizing yourself with the details.”

Peter shoves one of the boxes onto Stilinski’s bed, purposefully knocking it into his bare foot. Stilinski glares at him as he takes the lid off and blindly grabs for a file.

***

Peter wakes up the next day to find a case file exploded all over the wall beside Stilinski’s bed. He groans and shoves Stilinski’s shoulder as he passes him on the way to the bathroom. “Did you even sleep?”

Stilinski doesn’t look away from his makeshift crime board. “No, I was too busy solving your mysteries.”

Peter ignores the jab—so much of being the senior agent is simply not reacting to his trainee’s snark, he’s learned—and takes an extra long shower. He’s been cooped up for a week now, in the tiniest motel room imaginable, with the noisiest roommate imaginable, and there’s no end in sight. McCall said on the phone last night that surveillance indicates they’re still being actively hunted, and until the fervor dies down, they have to remain out of sight.

He also said he’s looking into a better safehouse for long-term stay, but the two Peter knows about in the area are already filled with witnesses needing round-the-clock protection. Peter had sighed, hadn’t hidden his disappointment from his boss, but he’d understood. Resources are limited and there’s not a lot they can do about that.

Especially since Stilinski’s reckless, insubordinate behavior is what caused this whole mess to begin with. Peter understands that this motel is part safehouse, part punishment. It just sucks that Peter’s forced to deal with it too.

If McCall is waiting for a mobster to forgive and forget, Peter guesses they’ll be stuck in this room for a while. Even Peter can’t imagine letting Stilinski off the hook and they’re supposedly on the same side.

When the water starts to run cold and Peter’s fingers are wrinkled and pale, he steps out of the shower and huffs at the lack of mirror in this tiny bathroom. The toilet is wedged between the tub and the wall, and there’s barely enough room to open the door without banging knees and elbows against things. Peter clenches his hands into fists and wants to punch right through the thin, warped door.

Instead, he takes several deep breaths of the steamy air and drips dry on the ratty little bathmat. It’s almost meditative, staring at the tracks of condensation sliding down the wall. The paint is peeling up near the ceiling too, loosened by years of moisture and neglect.

Peter finally scrubs a hand towel through his hair and opens the door, welcoming the chill after so long in the stuffy bathroom.

“I thought you drowned,” Stilinski mutters. He doesn’t look away from his crime wall. Peter imagines he’s been staring at it the whole time Peter’s been in the bathroom.

“Thanks for the heroic rescue,” Peter grumbles. He digs out a pair of sweatpants from their shared duffel of FBI-issue clothes and pulls them on hastily. Stilinski pays him no mind. It’s sort of refreshing, actually, to have Stilinski’s attention focused on something not-Peter, but at the same time, it’s unusual enough that it makes Peter uneasy. He finds himself _wanting_ to engage Stilinski in conversation.

More than conversation, though, they need to move. There’s enough room for push-ups, barely, and they’ve both occupied themselves with that meager exercise over the past week, but Peter’s about to vibrate out of his skin, thrumming with frustration and pent-up anger and boredom.

He slaps Stilinski’s shoulder. “Get up and help me.”

“Help you what?”

Peter crouches down to peer under his bed. The bedframe isn’t bolted to the floor, thankfully, and should be easy enough to shove out of the way. Stilinski catches on quickly and they each take a side, lifting first the mattress and then the short, metal frame and resting both against the window.

The bed wasn’t huge, but it opens up a nice patch of floor and Peter suddenly feels like he can breathe again.

From the smile pulling at the corners of Stilinski’s mouth, he feels the same.

“We’re sparring, come on,” Peter says.

“I’m in the middle of—”

“No. We’ve been stuck in here for a week and we need to get the blood moving.”

“As long as you don’t _draw_ blood,” Stilinski mutters.

Peter catches him in a headlock without warning and squeezes tight enough to make himself clear. “Don’t be a little shit and maybe I won’t.”

“That’s how it’s gonna be?”

“Defend yourself.”

Peter releases him just as quickly as he’d grabbed him and they both retreat to opposite corners of their little square of space. Stilinski eyes him warily, hands up and ready. He’s quick, and he’s strong, but Peter’s faster and stronger, and has at least a decade more experience. He tumbles them to the floor and they roll around, wrestling and shoving at each other, until Peter lands on top with an arm solidly across Stilinski’s throat.

Stilinski slaps the floor and Peter lets him up, hopping easily to his feet while his trainee catches his breath.

“Again.”

“I’ll outlast you, old man. Wear you down.”

“We’ll see.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

Peter rolls his eyes. Stilinski isn’t going to distract him with trash talk, if that’s even his intention. Maybe it’s just that he can’t shut up even when sparring. He almost says as much but bites his tongue. He’s not going to encourage this behavior.

“Old enough to be embarrassed about it,” Stilinski crows, and Peter’s blood thrums. He wants to lash out. He has to wait.

Stilinski taunts him a few more times, but he’s ready when Peter finally attacks. They struggle for a few moments, Stilinski grasping Peter’s wrists and keeping him from getting a grip, twisting out of every hold. He bucks and wiggles and squirms free, but he’s still panting by the end of it.

“Learning from your mistakes,” Peter muses. “Good.” He lets Stilinski have a breather, back in his corner against the wall, and leans against the short dresser while he waits.

“How the hell are you not winded?”

“Maybe I’m just in better shape than you.”

“Doubtful. You’re like seventy.”

“Evidence to the contrary,” Peter replies with a smirk and a flourish. “And I’m only thirty-eight.”

Stilinski grumbles for a moment but doesn’t say anything coherent. His cheeks are splotched pink from exertion and Peter can’t help jabbing at him. He can give as good as he gets.

“How old are you, anyway? Fifteen? Should I be arresting you for that beer last week?”

“I was undercover.”

“You were belligerent.”

“I was trying to fit in.”

“You were causing a scene and drawing attention to yourself.”

The kid huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes.

“Attack,” Peter commands.

Stilinski doesn’t even hesitate. It’s a little impressive. He comes at Peter with both arms raised and they tussle for a few seconds before Peter gets in a swift slap against Stilinski’s ribs and shoves him back to his corner.

“You’re the least subtle person I’ve ever worked with,” Peter gripes. “You’re reckless and impulsive. You didn’t even pause to consider your strategy.”

“I already had a strategy.”

“And it failed. Clearly. Listen up, kid, I’m giving you some real advice here: _consider your opponent_. Don’t rush in half-cocked with a second-hand plan that you adapted from some other situation. Take _this_ situation into account. You’re in small space against an experienced hand-to-hand fighter. You have speed and agility on your side, and I’m sure you’ve counted on that in the past, but you’ve gone three rounds with me. What do you know about _me_?”

“You’re quick too,” Stilinski says. “And you’re strong. Stronger than I expected.”

“So don’t assume you can use the strategies against me that you use against other people. What else?”

“You wait too long. You hesitate.”

Peter launches at him, spins them around, and shoves him face-down on the floor, one arm twisted up behind his back. It takes less than thirty seconds. He bears down on Stilinski’s shoulder and hip, pins his legs with his own feet, and bends down to speak into his ear.

“I don’t hesitate,” he says. “I observe. I calculate. I know you now. I know how to beat you, how to surprise you. I’ve watched you and I’ve experienced your tactics. You can’t take me by surprise.”

“Bet I could if I wanted to.” Stilinski grunts. “Let me up.”

Peter releases him. “You should always want to.”

Stilinski takes a few breaths and braces himself against the wall. He leaves his back turned while he asks, “Am I attacking or defending?” but when he faces Peter again, he’s composed and ready.

Peter smirks. “Who said there were rules?”

Peter takes a step to the right and his trainee mirrors him, maintaining the distance between them. He’s studying Peter, his eyes narrowed. Peter is impressed with how quickly he learns and adapts, but he still telegraphs his movements. That will take some work to train out of him. He’s an adequate fighter, though he depends too much on his youth, and that won’t last. Peter needs to teach him the skills that will grow with him. Peter needs to show him how to get better with age.

They keep circling. Peter’s ready for an attack at any moment. He won’t attack this time; he wants to see what Stiles will do, how he’ll initiate contact. He’s patient; he can wait. And he can leave the kid on edge, anticipating movement, continuously preparing to defend himself.

This will be fun when they have access to a gym with more floor space, mats to cushion their landings so they can throw each other harder, spar for longer. He wants props too, wants to see how Stiles reacts to the surprise of a rubber knife or a plastic gun. How will his behavior change?

Stiles licks his lips. His brow wrinkles briefly. He takes another step to the left.

Peter suddenly realizes he’s excited about the prospect of working with this kid for longer than this mission. He wants to keep him, train him up into a good partner. He sees the potential and he wants to claim it, to mold Stiles into a perfect agent. The possessiveness that streaks through him takes him by surprise and he feels a reflection of it on his face. The expression itself doesn’t register, doesn’t have time, because in an instant, Stiles is on him, taking him down to the floor.

They tumble and roll, locked together. Peter is only slightly wrong-footed, and he’s competent enough that it doesn’t show too badly, but Stiles presses every advantage. He really is a fast learner. He uses their cramped surroundings, pushing off from the mattress leaning against the window, and eventually climbs on top of Peter, twisting their limbs together in such a way that Peter can’t get enough leverage to force him off. He’s not as flexible as Stiles and he can’t seem to slip free.

Before he can slap Stiles’s arm to tap out, Stiles leans down and kisses him firmly on the mouth.

It takes Peter completely by surprise.

They stare at each other for a long, silent moment, panting from exertion and nerves—or at least, Peter is. He expects Stiles to apologize, but that’s another way Stiles surprises him: he simply rolls off, letting Peter sprawl out on the floor with nothing to keep his limbs contained, and retreats back to his corner. He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, and Peter stares up at him, unable to move.

Was it a tactic? A move to keep Peter on his toes? He did just say there were no rules, and maybe Stiles was testing him. Maybe he expected Peter to fight harder as a result and not to flop around bonelessly. Maybe…

But Stiles is still watching him and holding himself carefully, and Peter can see how tightly his fingertips are digging into his own arms, and it’s very unusual for him to be so silent. And yet, he doesn’t apologize.

“Well,” Peter says at last, pushing up to his feet, “you finally got the better of your opponent. Good.”

At last it comes, whispered into the silence. “I’m sorry, sir, that was…”

“You’ve never called me sir,” Peter cuts in smoothly. He makes a show of dusting himself off, straightening his sweatpants. He wishes he was wearing a shirt, that he wasn’t so naked in front of Stiles. He can feel a flush darkening his neck and probably creeping down his chest. “You’re a disrespectful little brat but I don’t expect you to change now. Not for this. Do you understand?”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful—”

“Yes, you do,” Peter says. “I’ve read your file. I know you grew up around McCall, around law enforcement. I know you understand the chain of command and how to show respect. I know your attitude is deliberate.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s not all deliberate. Sometimes you’re just a dick and I respond accordingly.”

“And sometimes you’re just annoying and it makes me act like a dick,” Peter replies. “But don’t conflate that with what just happened.”

“What I just did,” Stiles corrects.

It’s strange to see someone who shifts blame and babbles semi-legitimate excuses after every misstep attempting to take responsibility so wholly like this. Peter purses his lips. “Fine,” he says. “I accept your apology. I’m not angry, and I’m not going to write you up, so stop looking like I kicked your puppy.”

“Okay. I’ll just—”

Stiles makes for his side of the room, keeping his gaze down as he tries to slip past Peter, but Peter grabs a handful of his t-shirt and yanks him back around so they’re face to face. Stiles’s lashes flutter as his eyes jump around nervously, and he won’t meet Peter’s gaze.

“I didn’t dismiss you,” Peter says. Nothing has to change. He wants to show Stiles that they can continue sparring, continue working together, continue sniping at each other like they have been for the past week.

Finally, Stiles looks up. His gaze is steady and he swallows like he’s facing down the barrel of a gun. It hurts Peter to see him so resigned and… scared.

“Relax, Stiles,” he murmurs. “I told you: I’m not angry. You surprised me, that’s all. You watched for the moment I was distracted and you pressed your advantage. You fought well and you surprised me. You did good. I’m not angry about your methods.”

“It wasn’t a tactic.”

Peter almost laughs. “You won’t even let me give you a compliment now? I’m telling you that you bested me and you’re trying to say it was all an accident? Luck? No, Stiles. Accept the compliment and get back to your corner. We’re going again. Let’s see if you can take me down a second time.”

He shoves Stiles backward and shakes out his arms, preparing to absorb an attack. He wants to keep playing defense for now, to see Stiles put his observational skills into practice. He wants to see if Stiles will try to surprise him again. Peter’s ready for it this time. He’s even excited for it.

Stiles turns in a slow circle, tilting his head from side to side to stretch out his neck. When his back is turned, he says, “I could make it a tactic.”

“What,” Peter asks, “kissing me?”

Stiles faces him again with bent knees and loose arms. “I don’t want to pay you too many compliments, your head is big enough already.”

“You’re right, I do know how attractive I am,” Peter agrees.

“And now you know it affects me,” Stiles replies. “I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Do I affect you, Stiles?” Peter asks, smirking.

Stiles just glares at him. Peter rolls his neck and flexes his arms. He sees Stiles’s gaze flick down to his pecs, but only briefly. He remembers the way Stiles turned his back to catch his breath earlier too, regaining his composure after Peter pinned him. He is affected. Peter has to restrain himself from preening.

They circle each other around the small space, eyes locked and steps careful.

Peter’s back is to the wall when Stiles rushes him. Stiles pushes him hard against the wall and holds him upright with one arm braced across Peter’s sternum, and he aims a jab at Peter’s torso that Peter twists away from, turning into a glancing blow. Peter uses his hips and feet against the wall for leverage and shoves Stiles backward, and they crash to the floor with a loud thump that leaves Stiles breathless.

Peter cages him in, grabbing for Stiles’s wrists while he’s disoriented. He pins them with one hand and uses the other against Stiles’s throat. Peter doesn’t choke him out for real, just presses down with unrelenting pressure, and hears Stiles’s breath wheeze. Peter assumes he’ll tap out after struggling for a few breaths.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, Stiles’s face flushes pink, splotches of color brightening his cheeks, and he squeezes his eyes closed. It takes Peter an embarrassing few moments to realize what’s causing this reaction: humiliation. He glances down between them automatically, and though he can’t see anything from this angle, he can feel Stiles cock against his hip.

Peter releases him quickly, climbing off and scooting backward until he’s sitting against the wall.

Stiles lays flat for minute or so, breathing harshly, then turns onto his side and curls his knees toward his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” Peter tells him, because what else could he say? “I’m not angry, Stiles. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

They should move on. Put Peter’s bed back on the floor, return to their case files, play a movie on the grainy TV to fill up the silence. Peter should let Stiles escape into the bathroom, give him the only shred of privacy this tiny room offers, and not mention this again.

But he doesn’t want to do that.

Peter wants to take Stiles in his arms and soothe him. The strength of this urge keeps Peter glued to the wall in defiance. He doesn’t have fatherly tendencies, and he doesn’t want to be an authority figure to Stiles in this moment. He wants…

He wants to comfort Stiles like a lover would. He wants Stiles.

Maybe it’s sparked by Stiles’s attraction to him, but Peter recognizes the feeling now, the possessive streak that’s always run through him with his partners. He likes to claim people, make them better, groom them for success. He’s dated a congresswoman and a professional baseball player and a district attorney and none of them held those positions when Peter met them.

Peter can see Stiles’s future mapped out in front of him: the progression from trainee to Special Agent in Charge, the record of arrests that would earn him recognition throughout the Bureau. He recognizes the talent and the potential in Stiles and Peter wants to nurture it into greatness.

He presses his shoulders back into the wall even as his chest heaves, the sudden self-awareness knocking the breath out of him more than the fight did.

Stiles rolls up into a sitting position but remains hunched over, hiding his erection in the shadow of his raised knees.

“You affect me, too,” Peter murmurs.

“Not like this,” Stiles says miserably.

“Not exactly, but still the same.” It’s not Stiles’s body that Peter finds attractive—though he’s beautiful by all accounts—but his capabilities. His mind, his cocky attitude. It’s his confidence.

“I didn’t know you even liked men,” Stiles says.

“I like… intelligence. Talent. Potential. In anyone.”

Stiles scoffs. “You saying I have that?”

Peter tucks his knees under him and shuffles closer. “Yes, Stiles. Don’t play dumb, you’re smarter than that.”

A few moments of silence pass, and Peter feels the weight of his desires settling deep in his gut. He wants Stiles.

“I thought you hated me.” The shame is gone from Stiles’s face now, his cheeks pink with exertion but not humiliation, and his gaze is curious and sharp.

_This_ , Peter thinks. _This is what I love about you._ He glances over at the photos and reports Stiles pinned to the wall. He has a detective’s mind; he can put together puzzles of full of missing pieces, and he’s driven by curiosity and determination.

“I want to make you the best agent you can possible be,” Peter says. “I want to teach you things and see you succeed.”

“You want to take credit for my success.”

“I want to know that I was part of something _good_. I want the satisfaction of seeing you grow. And yes, I want to tell people that _I_ saw your potential and _I_ helped you before anyone else.”

Stiles barely gives him a chance to finish; he lunges forward, throwing one arm around Peter’s neck and resting the other at Peter’s waist. He pulls their bodies flush and presses their lips together in an urgent, searching kiss.

Peter opens his mouth to let Stiles in and Stiles moans, his body going lax with satisfaction.

“I’m sorry I got us stuck in here,” Stiles says between kisses. “I wanted to impress you and it backfired and it made you pissed at me and that made me pissed at myself for being so stupid.”

Peter rolls his eyes and lets out an explosive, disbelieving sigh. “You acted like an idiot because you were attracted to me?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Stiles kisses him again, desperate and quick.

“You gotta find better methods of flirting,” Peter says, shoving at Stiles’s shoulder, “because this pigtail-pulling shit made me want to punch your face, not kiss it. C’mon up, get on the bed.”

Stiles scrambles to his feet and pushes a stack of papers to the floor, clearing the space for them to sit together on the disheveled mattress. “Are you gonna fuck me?”

Peter raises an eyebrow and plucks at the hem of Stiles’s loose t-shirt. “You want me to?”

“That is literally all I’ve wanted since I was first assigned to you,” Stiles replies. “Fuck, is that—I shouldn’t have said that.”

Peter sighs again but it’s quieter now, more resigned. “I haven’t forgotten that you’re my trainee, Stiles. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“But?”

“But…”

Stiles bites his lips when Peter doesn’t continue, nervous energy making him twitchy. He finally says, “I want to. I want you.”

“I want you too,” Peter admits. “Enough to say fuck the rules.”

Stiles leans in and kisses him softly. He peppers kisses around Peter’s mouth, covering his cheeks and chin and nose. “I won’t say anything. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Peter pushes him gently to put a few inches between their bodies and says, “Enough. You’re making this far more illicit than it needs to be.”

“What, you think McCall is just gonna wave it off that you fucked your trainee when he finds out?” Stiles asks as he strips off his shirt. He resurfaces with adorably disheveled hair and a horrified expression making his eyes big and round. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry. Please continue fucking the rules by fucking me. He won’t find out. No terrible consequences.”

Peter rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles down to the mattress. He follows immediately, caging him Stiles with a hand on either side of his head. “No risk, no reward, right?”

Stiles grins brightly. “Am I your reward?”

“Shut up,” Peter snaps, but he can’t help mirroring Stiles’s smile.

He leans down and kisses Stiles again, exploring his mouth languidly. He can feel the tension, the eagerness in the way that Stiles is barely holding himself back, but Peter wants to take this slowly. At least, slow _er_. There’s a warm satisfaction spreading through him and he wants to savor it. Savor Stiles and their mutual desire.

“We’re stuck in this room for a while,” he murmurs. “No one’s going to interrupt us. We have time.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. I just want to take my time with you.”

Stiles reaches up with both hands and carefully touches Peter’s ribs with his fingertips, as if he’s hesitant to really hold him.

“It’s okay,” Peter says against his lips. “I want you to.”

Having permission changes Stiles’s demeanor immediately. His touch becomes firm and he strokes his hands up and down Peter’s sides, exploring the curves of his ribs and muscles. He traces the line of Peter’s hip and tucks his fingers briefly beneath the waistband of his sweatpants before roaming around to the dip of Peter’s back.

His hands are restless, mildly distracting as Stiles touches every inch of Peter’s torso, and it makes Peter want to return the favor, to have Stiles at the mercy of his hands, but he can’t do it with his weight resting on his hands. He sits up abruptly, leaving Stiles panting beneath him.

And what a beautiful sight that is. Stiles’s hands rest on Peter’s thighs, and his freckled torso is flushed pink with pleasure. His lips are swollen and pink too, and glistening wet, and the way he never shuts his mouth sends an urgent swirl of heat and desire to the pit of Peter’s stomach. He reaches down and presses his thumb to Stiles’s bottom lip and Stiles purses them quickly in a kiss.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Stiles says. He gives Peter’s thumb another kiss, then sucks it into his mouth. Peter sighs as his thumb pops free a moment later. “So fucking strong,” Stiles continues. “The way you held me down while we were sparring…”

“You want me to hold you down?” Peter asks. He traces Stiles’s mouth with two fingers.

Stiles’s grin is answer enough. He catches Peter’s wrist in his hand and spends a while sucking Peter’s fingers, driving Peter to the point of desperation that Stiles has clearly been at for a while already.

“I want to touch you first.” Peter yanks his fingers from the perfect, wet warmth of Stiles’s mouth and slaps his arm. “Get your pants off.”

He climbs off the bed to strip, giving Stiles space to squirm out of his matching sweatpants, and watches Stiles undress. Stiles arches his back, thrusting his hips up far enough to get the waistband down over his ass, and shoves them down his thighs, revealing a pair of bright red boxer briefs. He kicks the pants off completely before bothering with the underwear.

Peter stares hungrily as every inch of skin is exposed, and when Stiles’s hard cock comes free of the fabric, he actually licks his lips in his eagerness.

Stiles eyes him as he approaches the bed again, his gaze lingering on Peter’s erection and somewhere around the center of his chest. Peter reaches up and pinches one nipple into hardness and laughs when Stiles lets out a soft gasp.

Stiles reaches for him, grabbing Peter’s arms and waist as soon as he’s close enough, and Peter tumbles down on top of him. His fingertips find every curve of muscle and bone and Stiles responds beautifully, arching into every touch and murmuring wordless praise and pleas.

Peter gives in to all of it. He kisses and nibbles and strokes and shoves his fingers back in Stiles’s mouth to wet them again, and he can’t stop thinking about how amazing Stiles is, how amazing he’s _going to be_ , even while he’s begging Peter to hurry up and fuck him.

He’s as vocal in bed as Peter expected, but Peter couldn’t have predicted the way Stiles’s voice gets deep and breathy, or the way his blunt nails leave long, pink scratches across Peter’s shoulders. Peter swallows all of the incoherent noises Stiles makes and lets Stiles cling to him, and he whispers affirmations against the moles on Stiles’s cheek while he presses Stiles down into the mattress hard enough to bruise.

They kiss like they can’t breathe without each other, and after they come, Peter soaks in the contentment Stiles radiates like a cat in a beam of sunlight. Stiles’s eyes are half-lidded, sleepy and smug as he drifts into a doze, but Peter’s too excited to nap. His mind is already spinning with plans and ideas and he can’t wait to see how Stiles responds to each and every one.

***

They don’t bother getting Peter’s bed set up again, and when an agent visits the next day with another box of files and a message from McCall, he looks at it suspiciously.

“We were training,” Peter tells the man shortly. “Needed the space.”

“Old man’s still got some moves,” Stiles adds from behind him.

The other agent sighs and holds out the clipboard for Peter’s signature. “I don’t know how you put up with him, I really don’t.”

“He grows on you. Like a really persistent sort of mold.”

He hands back the clipboard and gets Stiles to carry the box over to the dresser with the others.

“We’re not really going to do casework, are we?” Stiles asks. “All cooped up here, alone, with nothing better to do…”

Peter smirks at him and shrugs. “Think of this as your new training regimen. Do your work without being a brat and I’ll give you a reward. Get to it. Solve some more mysteries. I still need to write up a briefing memo for McCall.”

They lapse into silence while Stiles spreads out one of the files on the floor, sifting through surveillance photos and witness statements. Peter isn’t watching him, but he can hear the rhythm of Stiles picking up pieces of paper and dropping them back into the pile with a sharp inhale each time, like he’s getting ready to speak. But he doesn’t say anything.

It gets annoying enough that Peter finally barks, “Spit it out.”

“What are you going to write?” Stiles asks immediately. “In your memo. About me.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Did you solve your mystery yet?”

“Getting there. There’s stuff missing from the evidence logs. I think that’s the key. What are you going to write to McCall?”

Peter closes his laptop and walks over to Stiles to ruffle his hair and angle him up for a soft kiss. “‘Responds well to positive reinforcement.’”

 

_fin_.


End file.
